Corporal Punishment
by Cr1mson5
Summary: A pretty girl like you shouldn't have to cry like this.


**If I suddenly become the owner of anything, I'll let you know.**

**Rating: PG-13/T for language and violence**

I wish I could say that I'm sorry, but I can't, because I'm not. All of this was meant to happen, every last bit of it. And we stand here now, in the thick of the danger, trying to tell ourselves that this is all just random happenings, but we know better. We know it's just a part of the design, a piece of the puzzle that's ended up in both of our paths abruptly changing course. I could lie to you and tell you that I never meant for this to happen, but I did. I did because I know you can hold your own, at least for a while. What they want from you is nothing compared to what they want from me.

You press your body closer to mine as they come for us, and I wrap my arms around you, to comfort you, to make you stronger. Already, your skin burns with the power inside of you, heating up my own skin and clothes like fire, but the cool moisture of your tears drips onto my chest and slides down my abdomen, its descent little hampered by the stiff fibers of Kevlar and hard armor encasing my torso.

And suddenly, I'm some kind of a bastard for doing this to you. A pretty girl like you shouldn't have to cry like this.

But they want you, if only for the gift of the pure energy that runs through your bloodstream, because they want it for themselves. They won't extract it from you; they don't know how, because it's impossible unless you're someone like Darkseid, which they're not. They'll just twist you, mold you into a killing machine and make you use your power for their agenda, their own purposes, and they'll make you enjoy it. You'll love being a monster, and that's what they're going to do to you.

Me, they don't need me. All they want from me is just blood, enough of it to create a serum. They want their virus back, and the only way to get it is to kill me. They won't make it painful, not at first. I won't die screaming, because I won't feel a thing. They might drug me, might dose me with enough morphine to keep me still and placid while they go about their work. I'll be weak by the end, too weak to fight back, and then it'll hurt. It'll be a moment, a quick instant of the bullet in my brain, and then nothing. I won't die screaming, dearest, so don't worry. And if I can help it, neither of us will die at all.

Once they've figured out that they don't necessarily need us both, that there are others like us, they will be done with us. They will no longer require our services, and then we will not be here to warn anybody else. But it's not as if it matters, anyway, because every second I spend out here is another second that could mean this sickness inside of me spreading to the public, killing millions and creating thousands more carriers who will pass it on to their children and begin the plague anew. And, concurrently, every second that you spend out here is another second that could mean you losing the control you so barely have a grasp on now, letting go of all inhibitions and reservations and letting your power fly to wipe out all who stand in your way indiscriminately.

Do you know how many people could die because of us? Probably not, because you prefer not to think about that; you just get as close to me as possible and cry it all out.

You're so scared. I can sense it, can read the tension in your muscles like a wide open book. You've never known this kind of power, and you don't know what to do with it or yourself. You're terrified, more afraid than you've ever been in your life, but you won't say it, because you don't want me to know.

I wouldn't mind. I'm a little scared, too, right now. But this cannot go on. We cannot be dangerous to anyone but the people who are after us.

You tilt your head up and kiss me, passionately, as if this was our last moment together. And it very well may be, what with the way things are going tonight. But through the emotions, through the lukewarm rain that pours down on our heads, through the way that we hold each other tight, you feel me reach for the weapons, and your face falls.

"I wish it couldn't have come to this," you say, on the verge of sobbing again.

"I wish it could just be over sooner," I respond, slamming a fresh magazine into the gun against my thigh.

You look at me in the same way that somebody might look at a murderer, and I suppose that I am. Is it so wrong to believe that some of those psychos should just be shipped off to Hell right now and save the rest of us the trouble of having to deal with them? Is it so wrong to save lives in a way that Batman is afraid to?

I don't fear crossing lines that don't exist, so I'm not afraid to do this for you.

The rain is coming in torrents now, beating against us like millions of tiny fists. Its temperature is not as cool as your tears, nor as warm as your skin, but it heats with our rage, our frustration.

And out of the distance they come, the assassins, in hordes as black and dangerous as swarms of deadly insects. I pull out my second gun, readying to fire at the first white of the first eye I see. I look down at you, and you're still giving me that look, but your whole body tells me that you trust me, at least until you can't control yourself anymore. I wish it didn't have to be this way, I wish that you didn't have to see me like this, but you know I can't do anything else right now. I have to get us both away; I have to get us both to Tim, because he'll know what to do. We can't waste any more time here, Stephanie, and you know that, even if you refuse to admit it to yourself.

So, I am anti-sorry and am anti-apologizing for what I'm about to do, but I have no choice. This is our destiny. This is what we're being forced into right now, and somehow it's just what they want.

They will regret this, Steph. I will see to it, for you.

I'm sorry, but this is a war I can't afford to fight nicely.

They come right up on us, and I open fire.

Let's raise hell.

**The End?**


End file.
